


Reminiscing

by ChelsaOfBakerStreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Reminiscing, Sherlock's Violin, john's ptsd, that one time sherlock needed john's measurements, the stars are important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelsaOfBakerStreet/pseuds/ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock start talking about the mishaps of the first few months of life at 221b Baker street which leads to revelations neither one had though of yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminiscing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consultingmydetective](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=consultingmydetective).



> Prompt from tumblr : I'm looking for a fic where John and Sherlock look back on when they first met and talk about it and stuff because them both at the start is hilarious. Maybe hints at Johnlock (maybe they even get together) but I'd rather they weren't established.
> 
> I hope I did this justice!

“Do you remember the day we met? I thought you were mental.” The phrase is spoken across the room, words vocalised in thoughtfulness.

Sherlock turned on his side, legs curling so that the couch could accommodate his lanky form as he regarded John closely. “You say you thought I was mental? You basically asked me out during dinner at Angelo’s.”

“I did not!” John scoffed, taken aback by the accusation. “I was merely trying to make conversation with the most outlandish flatmate I’ve ever seen. You’re the one who went off on the ‘married to my work’ tangent.”

“It wasn’t a tangent John; I simply didn’t want to mislead you before we had fully moved in together. In order for us to function you had to know certain things about me.”

“Yes, like the fact that you never eat or sleep and enjoy scratching away at your bloody violin at three in the morning.” John grinned.

“When you have a flatmate that suffers from PTSD, you’d be awake at all hours listening for sounds of his distress as well.” Sherlock hadn’t really meant to explain it that way, but the words were out there and he physically couldn’t take them back.

John was slightly stunned, wondering why Sherlock had bothered about it. “Did it ever bother you, I didn’t wake you did I?”

Sherlock sat up on the couch, realising that the conversation had taken a turn for the serious. “Just the first night. I wasn’t expecting it. I knew you had it – don’t look at me like that, with a psychosomatic limp and therapist of course you have PTSD.”

“So you’re saying you were conditioned to my nightmares after one time?”

“Yes John. You woke me up once and I thought something was happening to you and I was worried, but after that no, not that I slept enough to be woken by it really. Your snoring though is another matter altogether.”

John laughed and with that the intense moment was broken. Sherlock had flopped back into his usual position on the couch and John had picked up the newspaper, reading but not absorbing the information. “Do you remember the first time you used my jam for an experiment?”

“And you forced me to go to the supermarket to get more and I had filled the trolley with all the jam I could find because I didn’t know what you would like?”

John smiled at the memory, his shock at Sherlock entering the door with a collection of bags weighing down his arms. “So I had to sift through every flavour they had, denoting which ones I would actually choose and which you were allowed to experiment with.”

“You deserved that for setting my favourite jumper on fire!”

Sherlock laughed, remembering the incident well. “That thing had it coming, it was a hideous colour, and puce would have been better than whatever you called that thing.”

“I liked it!” John insisted, angry that Sherlock would get rid of clothing because it was ‘ugly’. “I’m sorry we can’t all wear suits twenty-four seven!”

“It was payback for my shirt,” Sherlock griped, sending a look at John.

“What shir-oh.” The shirt in question had been one of Sherlock’s white shirts that John had gotten blood on during a chase. “Excuse me for having you fall over me after the assailant shot at us and I scraped my arm across the brick to keep you safe. Shall we mention the soap?”

“Please don’t,” Sherlock pleaded, suddenly looking small.

“Right, because you will never admit that you were wrong for putting _hand soap_ in the _dishwasher_ after I had _just bought it_.” John was referring to the time he had come home from Bart’s to find the kitchen covered in bubbles and Sherlock sheepishly looking at him, towel in hand.

“Yes, but that was after the incident with the toast.” Sherlock was of course mentioning the time John had come downstairs to find two warm pieces of toast with butter and jam and had eaten them, unbeknownst to the fact that Sherlock had been using them as an experiment on the melting and coagulation time of certain fruits for a case the Met was stuck on.

“I thought you were being nice, which I of course should have realised is not in your vocabulary. Did you delete that too?”

“Sod off John; I know how to be nice when I feel like it.”

“Name one time,” John mused, looking pointedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, thinking. “I invited you to Angelo’s.”

John laughed, only Sherlock would say something like that. “You were on a case and wanted my help, that may have been nice for you, but I had no idea what to expect what with the way the few days we’d known each other had gone.”

“I remarked about the stars.” It was a simple statement, so unlike Sherlock that it threw John for a moment.

“Which I didn’t understand because you deleted the solar system.”

“You didn’t understand because you weren’t paying attention.”

John realised Sherlock was using that voice, the ‘I’m-being-very-obvious-but-you-probably-won’t-get-it’ voice and John was desperately trying to understand what on earth Sherlock wasn’t quite saying. “It’s because I’m an idiot right? It was one of those tests of yours to see how badly my powers of observation lacked against yours?”

“No,” Sherlock sighed, “it wasn’t. I also never needed to test that, everyone’s skills lack severely in comparison to mine. “

“Then there was the time you took all of my vitals when you thought I had fallen asleep and I almost punched you in the mouth. Just so you know, attempting to remove your flatmate’s pants while he’s asleep is not something you should do on the first night.”

“It was for science John, science! I needed to know your measurements so that I could log it so that if I ever found myself in the need of a new flatmate I could see if size, heart rate, and cranial circumference have any effect on the length of time a person can put up with me.”

John blinked a couple of times, absorbing this information. “You know, I occasionally question why I still live here. It certainly isn’t for the company. At least you’re nice to look at.”

Sherlock’s head snapped around as he glanced at John. “What did you say?”

“I’m just saying that it could be worse, you could have a horribly flat arse,” John laughed, Sherlock’s expression making it twice as humorous.  

“Yes well luck for you then that I enjoy dressing myself, or would you rather I just walk around in the sheet all the time?”

John blushed, not knowing Sherlock was capable of teasing.  “It’s up to you Mr ‘I’m-married-to-science’. If you want to walk around half nude, be my guest. Nothing I haven’t seen as a doctor.”

“Yes, but you haven’t seen me John,” Sherlock stated with such sincerity that John wasn’t sure if Sherlock was taking the piss with him or not.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you Sherlock?” With one sentence, John felt as if the entire dynamic of their friendship had changed, something was obviously different, even if John was lost as to what was really going on. Sherlock’s form had become more rigid on the couch and John felt as if he were underwater, breath caught in his chest. Finally something clicked. “Bloody hell,” John murmured, feeling instantaneously stupid and clueless. Sherlock was right, he was an idiot. “The stars,” he blurted out, needing Sherlock to understand he’d finally figured it all out.

Sherlock slowly turned, his heart beating abnormally fast for ridiculous reasons. “Yes?” he posed, chest constricting as he took in the way John was sitting, arms crossed, legs at a ninety degree angle. John felt threatened?

“You are one of the most bloody ridiculous men I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. What happened to being married to your work, not having a heart and all that?”

“People lie.”

“When?” John knew Sherlock knew what he meant, had probably been planning this conversation from the beginning.

“When you said no to my brother? And you?”

John was almost relieved that Sherlock hadn’t asked if, but that of course meant he knew, at least for a while. “When you asked about the stars. I could tell you didn’t do it often, and I deflected, confused as to what I felt.”

In the end though, it was alright that John was unsure. It had given Sherlock time to do experiments, to figure out why he reacted to John the way he did. He waited and observed, but every analysis pointed to one fact, he truly loved John Hamish Watson. The best part was now his final experiment was finished, and the results had returned positive, John loved him too. 

**Author's Note:**

> I just had to add the bit of fluff in there. I'm such a sucker for this pairing.


End file.
